


Gimme Gimme Gimme

by ClaraxBarton



Category: Captain America (Movies), Captain America - All Media Types, The Avengers (Marvel Movies), The Avengers (Marvel) - All Media Types
Genre: Canon Compliant, Dirty Talk, Established Relationship, F/M, M/M, Mandatory Fun Day, Minor Bucky Barnes/Natasha Romanov, Oral Sex, face fucking, sexy asshole Bucky Barnes, winterhawk - Freeform
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-05-31
Updated: 2019-05-31
Packaged: 2020-04-05 04:28:09
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 3,975
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/19041127
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/ClaraxBarton/pseuds/ClaraxBarton
Summary: Clint has a meeting with a very important operative in the middle of nowhere.





	Gimme Gimme Gimme

**Author's Note:**

> It's just porn. Really.
> 
> Thanks to Ro, as always, for beta reading and enabling dick jokes.
> 
> \----  
> \----

* * *

* * *

 

 

After a solid ten hours of driving, it felt like heaven to unfold his legs from the driver’s seat and walk into the dingy little biker bar. The bar, situated at the base of some big fucking mountains in the middle of nowhere, looked like it had been all but forgotten by everyone except a handful of locals and a few Harley enthusiasts. 

 

Clint let himself look over the bikes parked out front, appreciative of fine machinery even if he didn’t have much interest in engineering outside of making arrows that exploded. They were all pretty, but none of them were familiar.

 

So, a little disappointed and a lot resigned, Clint went into the bar and blinked until his eyes adjusted to the dim lighting. There was wood paneling everywhere - the floor, the walls, the damn ceiling - and Clint felt a little like he was in some kind of survivalist bunker. Especially once he focused on the clientele. All buff and bearded and scraggly, and looking back at  _ him _ thoroughly unimpressed.

 

Clint was a spy, and a damn good one, so he was good at blending into his surroundings. But, well, there was only so much he could do in this situation. His jeans were too fitted, his purple t-shirt tight in the wrong places and entirely the wrong color and, well, his sturdy tac boots fit in okay, at least. 

 

Deciding that he wasn’t going to win anyone over with a casual smirk, Clint let his lips twist into a faint sneer and steered himself to the bar. He sure as hell didn’t want to put his back to a room full of strangers - and the back wall of the bar was more of that damn wood paneling instead of a mirror - but, well… he’d probably stand out even more if he didn’t order a drink.

 

So, he did, stretching out his normally clipped words into as much of a western drawl as he could manage without sounding ridiculous.

 

“I’ll take a Bud,” he said, ignoring the inner Steve Rogers voice that screamed out  _ support local breweries and don’t buy that piss water! _

 

The bartender passed over a bottle, looking skeptical of Clint, and Clint barely refrained from rolling his eyes as he took a sip of the,  _ yes, Steve _ , piss-water beer.

 

Clint was on his third of the damn things, having commandeered a stool at one end of the bar so that he could see most of the place without looking like a paranoid city asshole, when the entrance door swung open.

 

It was dark by then, and it was easy for Clint to make out the lines of the bulky man who filled the open doorway. 

 

Tall, broad-shouldered and thick-thighed with legs for days, the man was dressed in straining dark jeans and a black t-shirt and denim vest that put him somewhere between the scruffy patrons and Clint’s - for once in his fucking life - clean-cut appearance.

 

Of course, the guy also had a few days’ growth of dark stubble on his jaw and long, dark hair that was loose around his shoulders, so he  _ almost _ looked like the rest of the bikers in the bar. 

 

Except he was way too fucking pretty. So fucking pretty. Especially with his cool, bright eyes and his red lips and those fucking  _ thighs _ .

 

The guy walked into the bar, and Clint wondered - hoped? - about the probability of his obviously threadbare jeans just giving up the ghost with each powerful flex of his legs.

 

Clint desperately wanted to die between those thighs.

 

The guy sidled up to the bar, two stools over from Clint, and gave him a dark, amused smirk when Clint didn’t make any effort whatsoever to not be caught checking him out.

 

“I’ll have whatever he’s having,” he told the bartender, jerking a thumb in Clint’s direction.

 

The bartender looked between them, dubious and judgemental. Clint was pretty sure it wasn’t in regards to their poor taste in beer.

 

The look did nothing to affect the man’s confident stance. But then, surviving a century of bullshit, a few different iterations of Nazis and aliens, hadn’t negatively inhibited Bucky Barnes’s ability to project confidence. This guy was going to have to do a hell of a lot more to have an impact on that nonchalant facade.

 

Bottle in hand, Bucky rounded the stools separating him from Clint and leaned his left elbow against the bar while he took a long, leisurely, pornographic pull from the beer bottle.

 

Clint licked his lips because - fucking  _ hell _ \- but he managed to tear his eyes away from those red, red fucking lips wrapped around the long neck of the bottle and look at his left arm.

 

It was dark metal, a color between blue and black that might be Clint’s third favorite color - right behind purple and light blue-grey that looked like stormy seas.

 

“So, you come here often?” Clint asked, pasting a flirtatious grin on his face.

 

His question was greeted with raised eyebrows, but when Clint just kept grinning, Bucky snorted.

 

“Nah, just passing through. How about you, doll?”

 

And that voice? That voice fucking  _ did _ things to Clint. It just wasn’t fair to hear himself called  _ doll _ like that, out in public, after months of radio silence and an empty bed.

 

“Cross-country roadtrip,” Clint shrugged. “Had an itch.”

 

Another snort.

 

“You should maybe see a doctor about that. I hear penicillin works great for those kinds of itches.”

 

What an asshole.

 

Clint loved him.

 

“Not that kind of itch,” Clint insisted, and then he turned on his stool, spreading his legs wide and slouching down just enough for his open knees to bracket the other man’s waist, a scant few inches keeping them from touching.

 

Bucky looked down, smirk still firmly stretching those obscene lips, and then his gaze flicked back up to Clint’s face.

 

“I look like a scratching post to you?”

 

Now there was a mental image. Clint on his knees, stretching up to rake his nails over Bucky’s bare skin and-

 

“Sweetheart,” Bucky admonished, tone somehow both rough and gentle.

 

Clint flushed - at the term of endearment, at the heated look in Bucky’s eyes.

 

“You’re the one who started it,” Clint growled.

 

Bucky’s lips twitched, but instead of arguing, he took another long sip of his beer.

 

Clint watched the way his throat worked, admiring and so very, very desperate.

 

Bucky set his empty bottle down on the counter and stepped closer to Clint, slotting his thighs between Clint’s legs and crowding him against the back of his stool so much that Clint nearly fell off.

 

“Pretty thing like you, walking into a rough place like this… seems kind of dangerous.”

 

“Oh, yeah? Think I should be afraid of the old guys judging me for wearing skinny jeans?”

 

“No.” Bucky looked Clint over, gaze lingering and burning as it traced over Clint’s whole body, until he felt naked and exposed. “You should be afraid of guys like me taking you out back and fucking that pretty face until you’re ruined.”

 

Clint made a noise, something between a whimper and a whine and a moan, and it was absolutely not something he had any control over. He felt his face flame, felt his whole body burn when Bucky’s smirk just grew larger and sharper at the sound.

 

“Please,” Clint begged.

 

Bucky licked his bottom lip, slow and purposeful because he  _ knew _ what it did to Clint.

 

“Please what, doll? Teach you a lesson?”

 

“Fuck, yes.”

 

Bucky chuckled, and the sound went right to Clint’s bones and to his dick, and fucking hell.

 

Skinny jeans and public boners were not a match made in heaven.

 

Not that Bucky seemed to have any complaints.

 

“Finish your beer, darlin’,” he instructed, staying crowded up between Clint’s legs.

 

Clint obeyed on instinct, because after three years of Bucky using that voice on him - that soft tone that was somehow rough and smooth at the same time, and really just pure sex - Clint was helpless  _ not _ to.

 

So he picked up the bottle and drained the mostly-full beer in one sip, not trying to put on a show because all his brain was capable of thinking was  _ the dry spell is about to end! Prepare to be WRECKED, Barton! _

 

Even so, whatever he was doing seemed to entertain Bucky just fine, if the way his gaze was fixed on Clint’s mouth was any indication.

 

Clint set down the empty bottle, and no sooner had the glass touched the bartop then Bucky was stepping back and pulling Clint to his feet and  _ dragging _ him towards the back of the bar.

 

They stumbled through the emergency exit in the back, and, finally out of sight, were on each other immediately.

 

Bucky shoved Clint back against the  _ wood-panelled  _ side of the building, and Clint grabbed fistfulls of Bucky’s hair and pulled him flush, and their mouths met in a kiss that was hungry and breathless from start to finish.

 

It could have gone on for hours, Bucky’s lips and tongue and teeth relearning Clint, tasting him and mapping him and biting him, and so fully possessing him that Clint didn’t even feel like a separate entity anymore.

 

When Bucky eased away, lips moving to Clint’s cheek and jaw and then his ear, Clint shuddered and clung to him.

 

“I missed you so much, sweetheart,” Bucky growled into Clint’s ear. Clint shivered.

 

“Fuck, me too, baby,” he confessed - not that it could have been all that much of a secret. He had showed up to his rendevous in Bucky’s favorite shirt and favorite jeans, his ‘fuck me hard’ jeans, according to Bucky. He’d basically taken out a full page ad that said  _ ready to get dicked _ . 

 

“Been thinking about this all day,” Bucky continued. The cool, unforgiving fingers of his left hand inched under Clint’s shirt and over his abs. Clint sucked in a breath and then let it out in a moan as Bucky smoothed his hand over Clint’s ribs and rubbed his thumb over Clint’s right nipple in a familiar caress.

 

“Been thinking about this for the past month,” Clint countered.

 

Bucky’s laugh was filled with heat.

 

“Yeah? Been dreaming about me?”

 

“Every night. Fuck, babe. The bed is so empty without you in it.”

 

Bucky snorted.

 

“Tragic. All this time I’ve been basking in  _ warmth _ because there isn’t a fucking giant trying to steal all the blankets or a dog trying to kick me off the side of the bed.”

 

“You miss it,” Clint countered, letting his own hands wander as Bucky continued to tease his nipple, thumb rocking back and forth over him. Clint shifted his hands down from Bucky’s hair and over his shoulders, down to his trim waist and then to his full, firm ass. Clint gripped a cheek in each hand and pulled Bucky’s pelvis to his.

 

They rocked together, Bucky’s dick just as hard in his jeans as Clint’s was in his own, and Bucky rewarded Clint’s efforts with a groan.

 

“Maybe,” Bucky allowed.

 

“Maybe?” Clint repeated, ready to be insulted until Bucky gave him a teasing grin.

 

“Yeah. Why don’t you show me what I’ve been missing, doll.”

 

Which, as far as Clint was concerned, was a goddamn engraved invitation.

 

He pivoted, maneuvering Bucky with him so that their positions were reversed and Bucky had his back against the  _ wood-panelled  _ wall.

 

And then he dropped to his knees and couldn’t resist the urge to just nuzzle against Bucky for a moment, nosing at the inseam of his jeans, and fuck. They weren’t from home. They must be something Bucky had purchased - probably second-hand for this much wear on them - for the op. Clint made himself a promise that Bucky  _ would _ bring them home after this.

 

Bucky’s left hand found Clint’s head, fingers threading through Clint’s hair but not making any effort to guide Clint into doing anything. Not yet. Instead, he let Clint drag his nose up the front placket of his jeans, sighed happily when Clint followed that up with his open mouth and teeth.

 

He could feel the bulge of Bucky’s dick against his cheek, hard and hot beneath the soft denim, and Clint wished they had more time, wished he could spend the whole night - hell, the whole of eternity - lavishing Bucky’s body with the worship the man deserved.

 

But, for all of their teasing, they were on the clock, and Clint was nothing if not efficient when it came to missions.

 

So he tilted his head back and reached for the fly of Bucky’s jeans.

 

In the minimal lighting from the haphazardly-flickering parking lot lights, Bucky’s eyes gleamed silver as he looked down at Clint. He was smiling, a soft, small curve to his lips that felt so intimate Clint’s heart skipped a beat.

 

“You’re the prettiest thing I ever saw,” Bucky told him, and Clint unsuccessfully fought back a blush.

 

“Spend more time looking in the mirror,” Clint mumbled, and Bucky laughed.

 

“Only if I’m watching myself fuck your sweet ass, doll.”

 

Clint groaned. Was Bucky  _ trying _ to kill him?

 

He fumbled with the button fly, snorting a laugh himself when he realized that there were  _ more _ buttons. Trust Bucky Barnes to buy jeans with a button fly. And to wear them  _ tonight _ , of all nights. There was no way he hadn’t planned it just to torment Clint.

 

Sure enough, as Clint eased all seven - and seriously,  _ seven _ buttons? - out of the loops, Bucky tugged on his hair, just hard enough to be distracting, to make Clint think about the way Bucky pulled his hair when they fucked, and how much he wished they were on a bed and Bucky was doing exactly that.

 

Finally, though, Clint wrenched the last button free, and Bucky gave an amused laugh when Clint pulled the jeans and - the absolutely no underwear - down enough to expose Bucky’s dick and heavy balls.

 

“Fuck, I’ve missed you,” Clint said again.

 

“You talkin’ to me or my dick, darlin’?”

 

Clint groaned and ran his fingers from the base to the tip of said dick.

 

“This dick. Fucking hell. Best dick in the universe.”

 

“You’ve been to three fucking planets, Barton. Hardly enough for an accurate scientific sampling of-”

 

Clint shut him up the best way he knew how, sealing his lips around the head of Bucky’s dick and laving at the opening to taste the pre-come beaded there. He sighed happily, even as Bucky groaned and grabbed onto Clint with both hands.

 

“Please,” Clint begged, pulling off and licking a stripe down the shaft. “Please teach me that lesson, Bucky.”

 

“Mm, sweetheart. You know I always give you what you need.”

 

Clint was pretty sure that, under a sustained onslaught, he might come just from listening to Bucky talk to him like this. 

 

At the very least, hearing Bucky say those words had him fumbling at his own fly and unzipping it so that he could pull out his own cock.

 

“You need it so bad, huh?” Bucky asked, laughing again, teasing Clint with another tug on his hair and by rubbing his dick against Clint’s cheek.

 

“Yeah. You know I do,” Clint breathed and turned his head, worked to catch Bucky’s dick in his mouth again and sighed happily when Bucky slowly pulled Clint’s head closer, forcing his dick into Clint’s mouth and down, until Clint’s nose was nestled against his pubic hair and his lips against the base.

 

Clint hummed happily, and Bucky’s hips rolled forward, making the both of them groan.

 

“You feel so good, sweetheart,” Bucky said. He tightened his grip on Clint’s hair and used it to push him back, and then he thrust his hips forward, hard and fast, and filling Clint’s mouth until he choked. 

 

Clint used his free hand to claw at Bucky’s hip, and he looked up at him.

 

Bucky met his gaze and his smile turned into a smirk, predatory and so fucking hot. He ran his left thumb around Clint’s lips, pushed it into his mouth alongside his own dick, and Clint groaned again because yes, yes he had an oral fixation, and it had taken Bucky all of seven minutes to figure that out when they first met, and he had ruthlessly exploited it ever since.

 

“Gonna let me wreck that pretty face?” Bucky asked. “Gonna let me fuck those beautiful lips until you’re a mess? ‘Til you’re begging for me to come in your mouth? Crying for it?”

 

Clint made an enthusiastic noise of assent, mouth still full of Bucky’s dick, and gave his own cock a firm stroke for good measure. Bucky’s eyes flicked down, registered the motion, and he grinned again before unhooking his thumb from Clint’s mouth and returning that hand to his hair.

 

“Love you so much, sweetheart,” Bucky said, just as he gave a sharp, brutal thrust into Clint’s mouth that had Clint abandoning his grip on himself and grabbing onto Bucky with both hands.

 

Bucky knew exactly how to take Clint apart, knew how much he loved an inconsistent rhythm, loved not knowing if he was going to be able to breathe or not with the next thrust of Bucky’s hips, and Bucky gave it to him. Fucking hard and fast, and then shallow, lingering rolls of his hips that made him look like sin personified.

 

All the while, he peppered Clint with compliments, telling him how pretty he was, how good his mouth felt, how much Bucky had been dreaming of doing this to him.

 

And Clint - Christ. Clint was in danger of coming untouched, just from having his mouth fucked and listening to Bucky describe him in a way that seemed impossibly perfect - so far from the trash fire of a human that Clint was that it defied all of Clint’s abilities to rationalize Bucky’s words and the look in his eyes.

 

Clint liked to think of himself as worshipping at the altar of Bucky Barnes, most amazing fucking guy he had ever met. But the way Bucky  _ looked _ at him - not just during sex, but sometimes when they were drinking coffee in the morning or walking Lucky in the park or just going over mission plans - it was like Bucky couldn’t believe Clint was real. 

 

It gave Clint a lot of feelings - and sure, a great deal of those were pants feelings - but a lot of them were the weird, painful heart kinds of feelings too.

 

And hell, even now - with Clint on his knees behind a backwater biker bar, spit and tears all over his face as he tried his level best to choke himself on Bucky’s dick while Bucky mercilessly fucked his face - Bucky looked at Clint like Clint was somehow  _ worth _ it.

 

“Sweetheart, I’m close. Gonna come for you, doll. Just for you,” Bucky groaned, and even after three years, even though he knew Clint loved to swallow his come, Bucky still always gave him that warning.

 

Clint hummed around the dick in his mouth, kept his gaze locked with Bucky’s even though it meant blinking tears out of his eyes, and when Bucky came it was with a wordless cry, lips parted and breath coming out in a shaky gasp, while his hands tightened in Clint’s hair to the point of pain and Clint struggled to swallow down the spurts of come that filled his mouth and throat.

 

“Fuck, sweetheart.” Bucky pulled out, still-hard dick dragging over Clint’s bruised lips while Clint woozily chased after it, and Bucky gave a weak laugh and held him at bay.

 

Bucky pulled Clint up, pushed him against the wall and used his left arm to support most of Clint’s weight while Clint just smiled at him, fully aware of what a fucking idiot he looked like with his messy face and hard dick out and sex-glazed eyes.

 

“Love you,” Clint mumbled, and Bucky kissed him, open-mouthed and gentle and so intense it made Clint shudder and cling to him.

 

“No idea who I fooled into letting me have a chance with you, doll, but I’m the luckiest son of a bitch in the world.”

 

Clint snorted a laugh, because that was a lie - but they had had this argument before, and he didn’t care to rehash it at this precise moment.

 

Bucky reached for Clint’s cock, warm fingers of his right hand curling around it just-so, possessive and familiar.

 

“No,” Clint batted the hand away, regretting it even as he completed the action.

 

Bucky did as told, without hesitation, but he looked at Clint with raised eyebrows.

 

“Wanna wait ‘til you’re home.”

 

Bucky snorted.

 

“You haven’t come at  _ all _ in the past month?”

 

“‘Course I have,” Clint shrugged. “I’ve got needs. And fantasizing about your ass while I shower is a  _ mighty need _ . But I… It’s dumb.”

 

“It’s not,” Bucky assured him. He kissed the corner of Clint’s mouth. “It’s sweet as hell, though. Downright cute, doll.”

 

“Fuck you, Barnes,” Clint growled, and shoved at his shoulder.

 

Bucky laughed and, grinning, pinned Clint against the wall and carefully adjusted Clint’s cock so it was back inside of his briefs and jeans, and just as carefully zipped him back up.

 

“Two more weeks,” Bucky told him, and Clint sighed.

 

He forced himself to make the mental shift from  _ Bucky fucking Barnes just fucked me _ to  _ Professional Avenger mode _ . 

 

“You’ll use the dead-drop if you get actionable intel sooner or need to be pulled out?” Clint asked.

 

Bucky nodded.

 

“I will. These fucks are bad, but they aren’t half as smart as they think they are. I’ve got enough on them now to do damage, but in another two weeks they’ll have a new product line to roll out, and I’ll have enough to put them away.”

 

Clint smirked.

 

“So sexy when you talk dirty to me, Bucky.”

 

Bucky gave him a quelling look, but it just made Clint smirk even more.

 

“Who the hell thought it was a good idea to send you out for my face-to-face, huh?” Bucky asked with a smirk of his own. He ran his left hand down Clint’s cheek and cupped his jaw. He nudged Clint’s head until he tilted his chin down and Bucky could kiss him again.

 

“Face to dick, maybe,” Clint joked.

 

Bucky snorted. 

 

“That explains why Steve and Bruce didn’t want it, but Tony and Nat really-”

 

“Nat was already on a mission, and Tony’s face isn’t allowed anywhere near your dick.”

 

Bucky grinned.

 

“Don’t want his face there anyway,” he told Clint. “You’re being careful out there?”

 

Clint rolled his eyes.

 

“Yes, Mama Barnes. I’ve been on three missions and haven’t broken a single bone, even though you and Nat weren’t there to hold my delicate hands.”

 

Bucky gave him a glare - a real one, the patented Murder Glare that had scared no fewer than seven reporters for national news networks into dropping the microphones they shoved into Bucky’s face in misguided - and unrepeated - attempts for an interview.

 

“I’m careful. I promise.” Clint kissed him again. “You?”

 

“Yep. No way in hell I’m letting myself get killed out here when I’ve already decided the only way I’m gonna die is being suffocated while eating out your ass.”

 

Clint didn’t know whether to laugh or take back his insistence on Bucky not getting him off.

 

Bucky decided it for him, grinning still, by pressing one more kiss to Clint’s mouth and then stepping away.

 

“I gotta get back before anyone makes noise about me disappearing for so long.”

 

Clint nodded, let Bucky’s hand slide from between his own, and watched him walk away.

 

“Hey!” he called out when Bucky was almost out of sight.

 

Bucky stopped and looked over his shoulder.

 

“Nice ass,” Clint said with a smirk.

 

Bucky huffed a laugh and made a show of smoothing his hands down said ass.

 

“All yours, doll,” he said, and then he was gone.

  
  


-o-

  
  
  
  


**Author's Note:**

> Bonus points to anyone who recognizes the ending.


End file.
